


You Must Not Relent !

by leo_minor



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: A Link Between Worlds
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Army Slang, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mute Link (Legend of Zelda), Period-Typical Homophobia, Soldiers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: Every month when the time for mail comes, Link dutifully writes to the same person. Everybody wonders who the lucky Jane may be, but the kid never spills it. It takes a long while before anyone notices the letters never go very far. In fact, they say they never even leave the camp.And in the privacy of the field hospital, Captain Ravio Lore of the Medical Corps gets to decipher the lines scrawled out onto the thin paper, every month without fail.
Relationships: Link/Ravio (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 112





	You Must Not Relent !

Everybody knows that Lance-Corporal Wilde is a little strange.

No one tells him that much, not even his team, who’re happier to ignore the rumours than to debunk them. Word goes around on its own, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t caught it yet, but he’s just like that, isn’t he ? He always seems a little vacant, gone far enough to miss most of what he’s told. His eyes are always bright, even when they ought not to be. He’s out of place from the way he ties his shoelaces to the angle of his salute, and everybody sees it. They say he’s undisciplined and reckless, but something to behold on the battlefield. They say he would be a Sergeant at least by now if he knew when to square his jaw and shut up. They say he’s unnaturally lucky, that he’s got something others don’t. Everybody knows this, except him.

It doesn’t help that he sticks out. He’s pretty, and it’s obvious, even under the grime and dirt. They say his dirty blond hair reached his shoulders before he was drafted in, but even cut short it curls all over the place. He’s got lover boy blue eyes and they say they shine even in the dark shadow cast by his helmet. The off-green uniform looks good on him, and he’s resented for it, and many other things. There’s a scar on his neck from the injury that resulted in his muteness; it’s a thick white line where stubble refuses to grow back, an ugly thing, they say, but he attracts ladies by the dozen. But they have, they say, no chance at all, for every month when the time for mail comes he dutifully writes to the same person. Everybody wonders who the lucky Jane may be, but the kid never spills it. It takes a long while before anyone notices the letters never go very far. In fact, they say they never even leave the camp.

And in the privacy of the field hospital, Captain Ravio Lore of the Medical Corps gets to decipher the lines scrawled out onto the thin paper, every month without fail.

Captain Lore is popular amongst their battalions, because he’s good at his job and he’s good to his boys. Everybody calls him by doc except for his regular letter-sender, who insists on calling him Capt’n. It’s harsh work, but he’s known to keep a smile on his face at all times, be it grim, be it grey. No one’s ever seen him cry, they say, although he insists he does it in his own time. In these times, he says, it’s hard not to – but never, ever in front of the boys. It’s his one rule, and he has yet to break it.

He’s brutally honest, and respected for it. He’s never attempted to hide his opinions of orders from above, nor ill omens that go through the camp. He’s never attempted to hide his soft spot for Lance-Corporal Wilde either, and everybody knows not to give him shit for it, too. He’s the best bedpan commando in the corps. Besides, he won’t take it. He’s got a temper on him, as much as any soldier.

Everybody knows not to push him, lest they be pushed back. He knows the rumours – _everybody knows_ – but he’s never responded, and so the camp is thrown back into conjecture and fabulation. They don’t mind too much. It’s always good to have somethin’ to occupy their minds, or what’s left of ‘em.

Lance-Corporal Wilde, living in a world of his own, is happy to deliver.

The kid thinks he’s slinky ‘n secretive ‘n all, but his visits to the hospital become a motif that’s bloody hard to ignore. Even when he doesn’t have a scratch on him, he devotedly lines up at the tent’s entrance and comes back out last of all. Maybe he’s on meds – he’s strange, after all – and goes for refills. Maybe he’s on the strong stuff that makes your mind go fuzzy and blank, like many men would die to be on, but a few guys have gone through his bags and found nada. His personal possessions amount to a little notebook and a worn-out crayon. His handwriting is such shit no one can make out a word. Besides, the boys who were in for a while, or there remain, tell a different story.

According to them, the kid doesn’t even ask for anythin’ from the doc. He just sits on the bed closest to his nursing station, all quiet, like. The only thing they exchange is yellow stained notes from the notebook of his, and an occasional smile. It’s fucking weird, they say, but hell, the kid’s like that. And there’s always that bright look in his eye, you know the one, only it’s brighter than anywhere else. His whole face lights right up when the Capt’n looks his way. It’s funny, they say, and everyone else nods and gives a dull chuckle but word goes around fast. T’ says the kid’s sick indeed, but not with any traditional illness. He’s just sick in the head, and in the heart.

And everybody knows that means jail and shackles and all that goes with.

If the kid notices people distancing themselves from him, he ain’t shown it one bit. It’s all they do, for now. It’s one hell of a serious accusation, one no one wants to be sprung into spud duty for bringin’ up without reason. For now, they shut up and keep a close eye on him. Some take it a step further. How, they’re asked ? Man, this shit is serious, they reply. We gotta take it to the doc.

But the doc only stares at them with wide eyes and asks if they’re pullin’ his leg.

“Is that what they’re sayin’, now ? That he’s a queer ? You’re fuckin’ with me. Wilde’s never pulled any kind of weird move on me, and he’s been comin’ for months. He just needs a bit of drugstore nerve every now and then, ‘n it’s my job to provide. He’s the youngest in the entire battalion, and all you ginks find to do is spread dirty rumours about him ? My flattest apologies, fellas, but I will not be givin’ you a hand in that.”

And later, when they’re gone and the young soldier shows up for his daily visit, he says :

“They’re onto you, y’know ?”

And the blond, turning to a fresh page on his pocket notebook, scrawls peacefully :

_“Have you read my last letter ?”_

“I’m serious, Link,” he’s admonished, although gently. The innocent curl of his hair, sticking to his sweaty skin, is endearing. “N’ from the sound of it, so are they.”

_“I worked very hard on it.”_

Ravio sighs and runs a shaky hand through his hair, the finishing touch that pulls what’s left of his ponytail apart. There’s specks of blood on his sleeves and uniform. He’s almost as tired as the soldier snoring through his unnatural sleep, high on shutters and missing part of his leg. Link senses this and withdraws his notebook to add a single, begrudging line, giving in to the doctor’s insistence.

“ _I have nothin’ to hide.”_

“Right, ‘cept the law says you do, and ‘round here the law knows best. The law also says you’ll be dismissed and thrown into the closest prison.” He pauses to give him a long look. The intensity with which it’s mirrored ties his throat into a knot. “I’d hate to see you go, y’know ?”

The soldier’s eyebrows furrow, and he peers fiercely at his little notebook for a moment. Ravio smooths out the sheets and sits down next to him. On the page, he’s scribbled two messy words.

“ _I know.”_

And, avoiding his gaze, he adds another three : “ _My letter, Captain ?”_

“There ain’t no gettin’ through to you,” Ravio laments, but the smile he’s wearing discredits the melancholy in his voice. “I read it yesterday durin’ the quiet hours. Though it would be more vivid if I read it out there under the bombs.”

_“D’you like it ?”_

This makes him snort rather audibly. “Did I like it ? Obviously. Just like I liked the previous half dozen. I didn’t think I was the sort to enjoy poetry of all things, but whatever it is you write, Link, it’s somethin’ else.”

It’s not the first time Ravio tells him this, but Link’s face flushes pleasantly just the same. It makes him look far more youthful – far _too_ youthful to be out here in the scum and the dirt. But Ravio is the same age, and under his palm he’s felt a hundred men die. Such are these times.

Such is what Link turns into verses both clumsy and artful. Such is what Ravio gets to read, once a month, and it helps him know he ain’t quite alone.

“I don’t have your courage, for sure,” he continues. “The fightin’ you describe, and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, it’s all terrifying. I couldn’t go out there knowin’ I could die any second, and any one of my breaths could be my last. I know bein’ so close to the frontlines isn’t safe either, but we’ve all gotta do our bit, right ? I’m here patching you boys up and sometimes I’m runnin’ like we all are, and that’s scary too, hell, isn’t everythin’ ? But readin’ your poems makes me feel… safer.”

To this Link finds nothing to answer, and settles with staring at his knees in a way that nearly defines him. Recently his letters are messier than usual, and covered in crossed-out words and discarded, half finished drawings he’s scribbled out in the margins. Recently, he’s been trying to write somethin’ more personal, somethin’ less about his eyes than his heart. He’s tired of the war, but it’s all around him. He wants to tell the Captain about somethin’ else, but the words won’t come.

Ravio’s hand hovers a few inches away from his back. The soldier’s eyes are unfocused, pupils gazing into a world of their own, dancing over the filthy green fabric of his uniform. Outside the tent, only the wind howls above the camp. There’s no one there to see. There’s no one there to even question it, but he feels his hand drop and lets it. Another time. He won’t cower away.

_“I’ll write until you ain’t scared anymore.”_

He looks down at the thin scrap of paper that Link’s placed on his knee and feels his lips twist into a bitter smile. It’s ripped at the top, pulled straight out of the notebook. It’s meant for him to keep. He folds it twice and slips it into his breast pocket, thinkin’ that Link is far ahead of him in every sense.

“Then I’m countin’ on you, Lance-Corporal !”

The frontline advances, and with it the dead pile up.

The men come back in waves. When he sees a stretcher he knows it’s bad, but they’re in the habit of surprising him even without ‘em, walking in on a pair of crutches with nothin’ below the left knee. The ones who aren’t feverish like to talk to him, to say awake, to grip onto life as hard as they can. A few bullet wounds are a-OK, but the bombs have been rainin’, ringing in his ears in the distance. With each egg that hits the ground his heart skips a beat. He’d do with a poem, and seein’ Lance-Corporal Wilde’s face.

“My boys are still out there,” one man tells him, fingers closed over his wrist. There’s a piece of metal embedded in his skull, splitting his skin down to his eye. His breaths are short and laboured. “They’re out there – someone’s gon’ go get ‘em, right ?”

“ ‘course we will,” Ravio assures him. His fumbles with his needle, turning the man’s arm outward to press it into his skin. It’s a tranquilizer, meant for surgery, but it’s too late for that. “We always get all our boys back, man.”

It’s an obvious lie, but the clear liquid has entirely disappeared into the man’s vein and his face visibly slackens. His head drops back, banging against the bedframe. He’s still gripping Ravio’s arm, his lifeline, but his fingers are tremblin’. With what’s left of his consciousness he grins crookedly and asks : “How am I doin’, doc ?”

He’s been asked too many times to count. He always gives the same answer.

“You’re doin’ fine.”

And his voice barely cracks, now.

“Just checkin’,” the man says, and goes still.

Ravio forces his eyes to focus and swallows the knot in his throat. His lips part to mumble a hollow prayer. He didn’t even know this man’s name. So many faces pass by and disappear, and he still doesn’t understand for what purpose. He has to resign himself to watching them go, and there’s nothin’ poetic about it. It’s not beautiful, ‘n it’s not even honourable. It’s just dirty. Jesus Christ, it’s dirty work.

“It’s those _fucking bombs !”_ someone behind him howls, tears mingling with his words. “God save us, ‘cos no one else fuckin’ will !”

The shout becomes a hoarse sob and dies out entirely. Whether the fella is watchin’ a friend die or checkin’ out himself, it doesn’t matter one bit. War reaps and it reaps and it reaps with only the promise of somethin’ better on the other side. For the sake of those he can’t save, he wishes it to be true.

Stitches and antiseptic needed on one bed. Surgery recommended on the next. One boy, barely a man, sits with wide eyes and his mouth slack open and his arms resting neatly by his side. He’s not responding to his friend’s insistent calls. The faces are a blur of green and red that make his head spin. He needs to stay cool, but approaching panic is tremblin’ at the tip of his fingers.

Digging through the supplies, throwing handfuls of useless government-branded junk over his shoulder, he gives the ward a searching look, checking out each bed for one familiar face. Fear is his worst enemy but one boy’s doleful eyes ward it off so easily. He finds them by the entrance, staring ahead. Link is limping heavily, arm slung over a comrade’s shoulders, but he’s alive and untouched and for a split moment looking his way. One might expect a solemn nod, but he smiles, and Ravio’s mind stops racing.

“Doctor !” one of the nurses calls, motioning for him to join them, and urgently. He takes a deep breath and grabs what he needs off the shelves.

The ground shakes, metal beds rattling under the tent, but the vials and bottles are safe in his grasp.

The next month, he doesn’t get a poem.

He gets the usual standardised yellow envelope with his name and rank scrawled on it so mindlessly that he’s surprised it made it to him at all, but inside, there’s no slip of paper waiting for him. He empties it into his palm, and half of a pencil falls out. A bit more shaking gets him the other half. The snap isn’t neat, and there are little splinters sticking out of both parts. He puts them in his pocket and wonders what the hell Link meant to say this time.

The soldier stumbles in when the sun starts to set and collapses onto the closest bed unannounced. He pulls his right leg over the mattress and starts to work on his shoelaces.

“You’re late !” Ravio tells him. He barely looks up from his work, pulling on the last stitch to remove the needle from his patient’s skin. The man winces. Ravio gives him a reassuring pat. “Just a layer of gauze ‘n you’ll be ready to go.”

From his spot Link watches him pull the roll from his pocket and knot a fair portion around the soldier’s biceps. Once he’s sure it’s securely set, he steps away from the bed and nods at its tenant. “Rest for a few hours here to let the meds wear off, ‘kay ?”

“Your word’s my command, doc !” the man jokes, and crosses his valid arm under his head.

“Damn right it is.” He turns to face the newcomer and finds him lying back, leg half folded upwards. The bandages around his calf are soaked through with colours he recognises, and doesn’t like. This must show on his face, because Link averts his eyes and lets his hair curl conveniently over them.

His notebook is already open, and the page Ravio’s presented only contains one word. Still, the letters are so thick and wonky that it takes him a few seconds to make it out. “ _Sorry.”_

“I’m not angry,” he reassures him – he can never be, with him. Link spies the smile on his face and relaxes, shoulders curving forward again. “Hey, don’t look so relieved just yet ! That leg is still infected, and it ain’t gettin’ better soon if you don’t take care of it.”

The soldier gives an absent nod, eyes set on his elevated knee. For a second Ravio wonders if he’s gone again, but his bottom lip is jutting out slightly. He’s pretending to sulk. Also, he’s a terrible actor.

Ravio pulls the first layer of bandages off the boy’s leg. They’re unpleasantly wet in his hands. Link shifts in discomfort, face scrunching up. From his pocket he pulls out a thick crayon and swipes his notebook off the sheets.

_“Is it really bad ?”_

“Not necessarily. And by that I mean it won’t be, if you come on time for treatment !” He pauses in his sermon to cast a quick look over his shoulder. The man a few beds down seems to be snoring, but he lowers his voice anyway. He ain’t takin’ any chances. “I got an empty envelope from the mailman this mornin’. How come ?”

“ _Not empty,”_ Link’s notebook corrects him.

The wound, like most, smells terrible and looks worse. Ravio holds his breath. Link’s hand drops the notebook and rushes to cover his mouth, an understandable reaction alright. He runs a spare piece of cotton down his leg and it comes back practically drippin’ with puss.

“Close your eyes,” Ravio tells him. The soldier complies. The corners of his lips are tremblin’ with every bit of pressure the doc puts on his leg. He throws the soiled dressing into the closest bin and stops by the sink to pour him a glass of water. It’s a bit muddy, but it’ll do. Two pills fizz at the bottom. “Bottoms up !”

The young man grimaces, but he downs the meds soon enough and lies back down, chest heaving. He’s probably hopin’ for a moment of peace. No such luck : the alcohol Ravio pours onto his wound sends him hissing like an angry cat. His hand reaches for Ravio’s and finds it holding his knee in place. He grips it tightly enough to make his knuckles pop.

Ravio, eyes very deliberately set on his work, lets him thread their fingers together and squeeze once.

When the wound stops sizzling and the vial is empty, he takes a step back and faces the soldier. He looks like he always does – out of place. Any trace of pain has melted off his face, leaving it empty, a little vacant, irises dark ovals barely registering the world around him. He’s gone again, really, this time, but that peaceful smile of his still hangs from his lips. He looks so fragile at times, and yet he’s still alive, unlike many. Maybe he _does_ have somethin’ others don’t – rumours aren’t to be trusted, but maybe this one’s true.

“You’re right, it wasn’t empty. But it certainly didn’t have a poem. I’m not sure what you meant by this – I ain’t an artist like you are !”

Link’s head slowly turns to face Ravio’s outstretched hand. In his palm, the two halves of the pencil sit snuggly. The soldier’s expression sours at the sight of it, and he reaches for his notebook and crayon again.

“ _It’s an apology.”_

“An apology, now ?” Ravio repeats. He sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to work clean bandage around Link’s leg. “What the hell for ?”

_“For not writing you anythin’ this time,”_ the notebook further provides.

In answer to this Ravio doesn’t have much, other than a befuddled glance. Link’s frown deepens, and he leans forward to resume his scribbling. Unconsciously, he folds his injured leg, and Ravio has to grab it to stop the half-finished dressing from unwinding completely. He watches him turn one page, then a second, and finally a third before thrusting them into his awaiting hands.

Damn, he wouldn’t turn down glasses to make this one out.

_“Recently, I’ve been afraid.”_

Beneath this, three lines have been thickly crossed out. His eyes skip over them.

_“Everybody’s droppin’ like flies. The further we go, the more people end up glassy-eyed n’ missin’ half of themselves. I’ve been pretty close myself, ‘n every time I have to go back out there I end up shakin’ in my boots like any breath could be my last. I’ve been scared from the beginnin’, but it’s gettin’ worse, ‘n I don’t even understand what I’m layin’ my life down for. I don’t wanna die fightin’ someone else’s fight – I don’t wanna die at all.”_

As different as he may seem, Link’s like every other fella out there deep down. Every one of the boys who’ve come for a check-up have mumbled the same thing nearly word for fucking word, some playin’ it off as a joke, some wipin’ away fat tears. There’s never much he can do, other than give ‘em a pat on the back and a couple of pills, because he feels the same way. They’re all tired of the same old tune.

_“It’s always on my mind, it chases away anythin’ else, but I don’t wanna write about death, or about fear, or about war anymore. I broke my pencil because my fingers were shakin’ and I couldn’t jolt down a single word that didn’t have somethin’ to do with it. It’s over for me ! I ain’t writin’ about being afraid no more ! I wanna send you better things, ‘n brighter things, ‘n I wanna write about somethin’ that’s different, ‘n more imp… important.”_

Ravio looks up from the notebook and finds Link’s fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist. Looking into his eyes, he doesn’t need to think hard to guess what that may be.

This is the longest message Link has ever written him in one go and in prose. It deserves an adequate response. But with the soldier’s bright eyes on him, he can’t think very straight. Ironic, he thinks, and breaks into an unplanned smile that Link mirrors immediately. Somehow, he looks satisfied. It suits him well.

“Apology rejected,” he jokes at last, closing the booklet’s cover. “Motive : no need for it. I’ll keep the pencil for now, ‘n next month I’ll wait for your envelope, no matter what’s inside.”

_“I’ll write something,”_ the soldier promises. _“Something from the heart.”_

“I’ll wait for it eagerly, Lance-Corporal. Now, answer me honestly : would you like a new pencil ? ‘Cos I’m not sure I’ll be able to read your letter at all if it’s in bloody crayon again.”

Link lets out a dramatic sigh and collapses back down. _“Please, Capt’n.”_ And as he lifts his leg up again, allowing Ravio to finish his bandaging, he bites down a smile that’s brighter than it ought to be.

Captain Lore has lied to ‘em.

Strong world, you’ll say, ‘n the man agrees, leaning back against his pillow. He cracks his eye open. The kid’s still there, beamin’ to thin air like he’s got more than a couple screws loose up there. Maybe lyin’ ain’t right – he’s been deceivin’ them, then. Whatever the word for it is, it ain’t good, oh, it ain’t.

What’s it you’d said, doc ? Wilde’s never pulled any kind of weird move on you, has he, the filthy bastard. But the two of ‘em were sittin’ there holdin’ hands so sweetly, weren’t they, just a minute ago. Lookin’ at each other like there’s nothin’ else in the room. The doc’s been protectin’ Wilde again, but the rumours are true, he’s a pervert, ‘n he doesn’t deserve Ravio’s discretion.

That, or _the doc’s one himself._

That’d be ridiculous, ain’t that right ? Yet the man’s skin crawls like it’s covered in ants runnin’ up and down the spot on his arm Ravio had tended to. He doesn’t want it to be so. He likes the doc. They all do.

Still, that letter he’d been holdin’– !

“ _Burn them !”_

“What’s gotten into you ?”

Link shakes the little notebook in his face like the gesture might explain it all. It does not. Ravio tries to put his hands on the soldier’s shoulders and get him to sit his ass down, but he shrugs them off with rare vehemence and stands his ground. One of his eyes is shut tight and bruised an ugly purple, only one of the injuries he’s shown up with, but he shows no sign of even bein’ aware of ‘em. When Ravio tries to touch his split lip, he jerks back so violently his helmet falls right off his head ‘n goes rattlin’ down the aisle.

His pencil trembles in his hand. _“You have to burn the letters !”_

The sentence is underlined three times. Ravio’s thumb blurs the graphite lines at the edges.

“Tell me why you’re beaten up ‘n I’ll consider listenin’ to you on that matter !”

Link snatches the notebook back and sets pencil to paper again. The tip rips right through the first page and glides across the second. He rips them out and holds his breath, scrawling a few words down on the third. The lighting’s poor ‘n flickerin’, but it looks like his cheeks are wet.

_“They found out,”_ the awkward letters spell out. Ravio feels his heart drop. “ _About me, ‘n they know I’ve been sendin’ you letters, ‘n…”_

“Jesus Christ,” Ravio whispers. The familiar knot of panic is already winding in his throat. “So they’re the ones who –?”

“ _It don’t matter ! What does is that they’re talkin’ ‘bout you, too ! You gotta burn the letters now before they come lookin’ for them ‘n find proof ! Come on, where are they ?”_

Link’s hands reach out for his collar and grab two handfuls of his jacket. He looks into Ravio’s face, and in his single, open eye shines anger he’s never seen before. The soldier shakes him, and he goes along, wonderin’ if it could really have turned out any other way. Only they haven’t even done anythin’ worth condemnin’ – they never had a chance. If he hadn’t been so scared these past months might have been worth somethin’. Instead they’re about to get the shit kicked out of them, because of a dream _._

The self-blame makes his mouth taste bitter, but Link shows no sign of accusation. He fumbles with his belt and pulls a box of matches out of one of the pockets.

_“Quick,”_ he mouths.

Ravio doesn’t understand, but his hand closes over the matches. The letters are by his desk in a small wooden box with a tiny, protective keyhole but it only hides a flimsy lock that opens with a flimsy key. They’re in chronological order, still in their original envelopes, preserved ‘n protected. They’ve been his happiness, from the first to the last, ‘n he knows some of them by heart. To set them on fire is to him blasphemous, like he’s killin’ a bit of Link along with them.

“I don’t…”

“ _There ain’t no time, Ravio ! This is a witch hunt ‘n we’re the ones they wanna drown ! Ain’t you the one who kept sayin’ I had to be careful ? You’ve been protectin’ me so far, ‘n now it’s my turn !”_

“I can’t do it, goddamn it !” he cries, and throws the match down. His heel crushes it into splinters that sink into the ground. “You’re tryin’ to save my ass, but there’s no point ! They’re gonna drag you outta here, ‘n there’ll be nothin’ left to keep me going ! I’ll have to keep workin’ with the bombs above my head ‘n no solace ‘n no company, ‘n I’ll have to hide the truth until the frontline breaks and some bastard shoots me in the face ! If they send you away they might as well send me along with you !”

Against all odds, the wrinkles between Link’s eyebrows disappear. He closes his mouth and lets a smile tug the corners up. The fear has melted right off him. He’s found something in Ravio’s words, something the doc himself seems to have missed, and looks radiant even in the poor candlelight. His fingers fiddle with his pencil, the end of which he sticks between his teeth. With his curls matted to his forehead and his bruised cheeks, he looks incredibly cheeky.

_“I’m –“_ his pencil has the time to trace, before the first bomb drops.

The impact shakes the ground and rattles the metal rail beds, sending them crashing into each other. A cupboard tilts forward and falls to a splintery death, strewing broken glass and pools of medicine all over the floor. The tent’s ceiling trembles uneasily and spits out a cloud of dust and chalk that stings their eyes. Recovering from their stumble, they look at each over with panicked understanding, because this ain’t some faraway attack, it ain’t some small reverberation. It’s close. It’s practically above them.

Voices are already shouting orders outside. Link takes a step over the debris and holds out his hand, but a new explosion throws him off his feet. Supplies fall off their shelves and shatter, rolling across the ward’s uneven floor. Ravio stumbles to his feet, hands pressed hard to his aching ears, just in time to avoid a metal box flying off the closest shelf.

“Link !” he shouts over the rumble, searching the dust for the soldier’s figure. It’s so thick he can barely make out the entrance.

Another brutal boom resounds and sets his ear-drums a-screamin’ – he falls backwards and hits the ground with a dull sound. Something tips off the shelf and hits him in the head, adding just enough insult to injury to cause his eyes to tear up. It’s his wooden box, still shut tight and locked, and he shoves it securely under his arm before staggering back up.

On the other side of the ward, Link is coughing dryly, leaning against the closest of the tent’s metal poles. The dust clears enough for Ravio to make out the notebook and pencil he has in hand, at a bloody time like this. He makes his way over the upturned beds and smashed pieces of wood, keeping a wary eye on the ceiling. The sky’s whistlin’. Another one’ll hit soon.

“We gotta get outside !” he calls, pushing an unhinged shelf out of the way. Link looks up just long enough to locate him before staring down at his notebook again. Ravio lets out a desperate moan and pulls his leg over the last foam mattress blocking his way. “Now ! The tent’s gonna collapse !”

He grabs Link’s arm and pulls, making the young man stumble into him. Laying both of his hands flat against his back, he settles on pushing him through the tent’s entrance and into the open. The lights around them set the words in Link’s eyes ablaze, and at last he looks up from his page to look into the sky.

“They’re still comin’,” Ravio says, tugging on the soldier’s sleeve. His grip on his box tightens. “Let’s try ‘n make it to the closest shelter, ‘n…”

‘N Link presents his notebook to him, and on the page in jagged letters reads not an agreement but a proposition. In these simple words, it says :

_“Run away with me.”_

Ravio’s heart is beating so harshly he’s half expectin’ it to burst right out, and the loud crashes that have followed each bomb are still bouncing about in his head, and both those sounds climaxing together are pushin’ him more than a little over the edge, and all he can find to answer, in all politeness, with all his affection, is :

“Are you completely nuts ?”

Link has the audacity to looks offended, but the doc never gives him the opportunity to reply. In one swift motion, he snatches the pencil out of his hand and holds it hostage, clasped tightly between two trembling hands.

“What the hell is goin’ on in that head of yours, huh ?” he asks, voice trembling’ just enough to impair him. “We’re bein’ bombed ‘n you’re talkin’ about desertin’ ? _Desertin’ !_ This ain’t some love tragedy, Link ! We ain’t at the goddamn movies ! For fuck’s sake ! Lookin’ so calm standin’ there, it’s like you got it all planned !”

He doesn’t realise how much he’s shakin’ until Link reaches out and wraps his hands around his, stilling them. Ravio breathes out slowly and lets him pluck the pencil right from between his fingers.

_“D’you actually think that,”_ he writes, “ _or are you just scared ?”_

And to that question, Ravio isn’t sure he has the answer.

_“I’m sick of fightin’, Capt’n. None of us actually wanna kill each other, ‘n we’re all stuck in a cycle anyway. I need to break out of it, ‘n it might be dishonourable or dirty, but I can’t keep takin’ lives ‘n offerin’ mine. I gotta see somethin’ else of the world, ‘n write about that instead. Also…”_

He pauses to give Ravio a quick glance. The doc won’t look at him ‘n keeps staring at the page, lips twisting at the corners.

“ _Also, people no longer want me here, ‘n if you won’t burn the letters they won’t want you ‘round either. Either they throw us out or we leave ourselves now. We could go anywhere ! I bet there are peaceful places, where you can still see the sun behind the smoke. They can do without us ‘n we can do without death ‘n bombs ‘n havin’ no light ahead. C’mon, Ravio. I never had the guts to say it, but I lo–“_

“I know,” Ravio says. His fingers close over the end of the pencil, and he pulls it off the page, presenting it to Link tip-up. He doesn’t look happy – he looks downright shaken – but there’s something that’s settled in his eyes. A tremblin’ breath escapes him, ‘n he looks up at Link, properly this time, heart beatin’ almost faster than inside the tent. “And I know it’s fear talkin’. Don’t you think it’s terrifyin’ to throw ourselves into the unknown ?”

_“It’ll be better than here,”_ Link mouths.

The words are but mumbles to Ravio, who sighs audibly and runs his hands down his face. Ashes cling to his sleeves. He parts his fingers just enough to make out Link’s face, as sure as ever, with eyes not vacant but _burnin’,_ waiting for an answer. Sweat has stuck his curls to his forehead. He guesses he’s been runnin’ away from it for long enough. Everythin’ that’s scary doesn’t have to be bad.

“Ask me again, Lance-Corporal.”

Obediently he flips back a few pages and holds out his notebook.

“ _Run away with me ?”_

“OK,” Ravio says, with certainty beyond him. And from the heart, fighting a smile, he adds : “I can’t fight no war without your sugar reports, can I ?”

_“I know,”_ Link scrawls, looking cockier than ever. He takes Ravio’s hand, and grins only harder when the doc slips his fingers snuggly between his. Into the shadows of the tent he pulls him, and together they break into a run, leavin’ flames and warped barbed wire behind.

“Wilde, Link. Lance-Corporal,” the Colonel calls.

There’s an uneasy murmur amongst the crowd. Unwashed and bruised faces look around. They’ve lost nine men so far. Wilde is the last on the calling list.

“Callin’ for Wilde. Has anyone seen the kid ?”

“Not since last night, sir,” one man calls. “We had a chat with him ‘round an hour before the bombs started fallin’, sir. No sign of him since then.”

The Colonel puts his pencil down. “Check the bodies for him, then.”

“But sir, if I may. We have already, ‘n he’s not there. He’s not under the debris, either. We’ve cleared everythin’.”

“You’re tellin’ me he vanished, Private ?”

The soldier lowers his head. He gives the men around him a furtive glance before standing tall and adding : “He’s not the only one, sir.”

“Who else ?”

His question is met with a torrent of name-calling, intelligible vociferating from the first to the last row. One man in the middle of the crowd yells louder than the others, and he calls so clearly that the noise dies down.

“It’s the doc !”

“It’s Ravio Lore !” another soldier provides, and the Colonel lifts an eyebrow. Disappeared, they say.

“No sign of their bodies ?” he confirms, scratching his forehead with dirtied nails. Oh, the paperwork ahead of him.

“None, sir. Even their stuff’s gone.”

“So they’re AWOL.” The Colonel rolls his pencil between his thumb and index for a moment. He draws two neat crosses next to both of their names and shuffles his papers back into a pile. His shoulders square as he breathes out. A few Majors owe him fifty bucks each. At last he lifts his head, and, brushing dust off his lapel, says :

“Good for them.”

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to sarumane for proofreading, & thank you for reading !


End file.
